~ Written Works of C. L. Manion

Tag Archives: courage

Cement feels colder in the dark. And rougher, more uneven. This, of course, is a fantasy brought about by anxiety and the strangeness of a new place. There must have been mildew, though Phillip couldn’t see it. Basements are such unpleasant places.

But unpleasant places are good for hiding vital things. Somewhere amongst the shelves, tucked away in a plain-labeled bin, was his target. It was just a matter of locating it.

There was a thud.

It was a low, quiet sound, but it was enough. He wasn’t alone. Frozen in place, he scanned the room, listening for his counterpart’s location. There was nothing. Phillip could just make out an alcove a few feet in front of him – the perfect place to hide. Still, the room was silent. He made a run for it.

The blow to his head was swift and precise. And there was nothing – just a darker darkness. When he opened his eyes, cheek to the cold cement, he found himself a prisoner.

“Do you know who I am?” The shadow stared directly at him. Even in the dark, Phillip knew the answer. The round and whiskered face stepped into the pale light of a window well.

“I am the one they call…Mittens.”

Phillip squeaked in terror, wrapping his naked tail around his body and preparing for the worst. Mittens had a reputation – a reputation for dismemberment. It was said he kept the heads somewhere, like tiny macabre trophies. Meanwhile, the bodies were left upon stoop or stair to be disposed of by his middle aged manservant – a sleepy, balding man who was clearly unaware of the sort of psychopath he served. Phillip cowered, desperate for a plan of escape as Mittens towered over him.

“P-P-Please, I was only just -”

“Silence!” Mittens commanded. He pawed at Phillip, playing with him. Smug, and yet, disinterested.

“Well now, what do we have here? A little field mouse is it? Always little field mice thinking they can just scurry into my domain and take whatever they like. How cute. You thought you could evade Mittens the great and terrible. Well, little mouse, you’re about to find out how powerful I really am.”

Philip cringed. He did not want to be dismembered. But just then, he had an idea.

“Are you monologue-ing?”

“What?” Mittens knit his brow.

“Ooo, very poor choice, monologues…gives your captive time to get away,” Philip scrambled, hoping to buy some time, “But I’ll give you points for the introduction, very well played indeed. Theatrical. Have you considered a career in film? I think you’d be perfect for–”

“Enough!” Mittens roared, “Do you think this is a game?!” Philip trembled, cursing his own sense of humor. Surely, this was the end.

The lights flipped on.

“Here kitty kitty,” the manservant sang from the highest stair. Mittens winced with bitter embarrassment. The distraction lasted only a moment, but it was enough. Phillip launched into a sprint.

Mittens dove after him in a wild-eyed, spring-legged pounce. Phillip could feel him flying just above his head. A crack in the wall, the gateway to freedom, was just a few inches further. He pushed his tiny legs as fast as they would go. And then faster.

Mittens landed, but caught nothing more than a patch of cold cement. Philip breathed a sigh of relief when he realized he’d escaped.

The new champagne popped on the other side of the room. The guests ebbed and flowed. Through the sea of knee-length skirts and ironed pant-legs, a red mess of hair in footie pajamas was looking for his mother.

“Oh my God!” cooed Margery, “Is this Aiden? I bet it is! How old are you now sweetheart?”

Aiden found his mother and hid behind her skirt.

“He’s so shy,” Charlotte apologized, “Just turned six last month.”

“Well if he isn’t the cutest!”

Aiden lightly tugged the fabric to get his mother’s ear, but she only patted his head.

“Dale wanted to name him Ash, but I mean come on. After all that? Seems like it’d be bad luck, y’know?”

“Or certainly bad taste.”

“Charlotte?” Another guest called from elsewhere, “Charlotte something’s rattling in the kitchen – is there something in the oven maybe?”

“Excuse me,” she smiled and drifted away, trailing Aiden as her sleepy-eyed caboose. The kitchen was full of grey-haired ladies smelling strongly of bad soap. Aiden tried to hide in the shiny black fabric at Charlotte’s knee.

The tapping was coming from behind the wall. A little here. A little there. It traveled slowly from one side of the kitchen to the other.

“Sounds like you got a vermin in there,” a tight-permed lady said.

“Sounds heavy,” said another. Charlotte pursed her lips. She had no time for such unpleasantness. Aiden watched blank spots on the wall, following the sound.

“It’s probably nothing,” Charlotte waved it off, “You know how the pipes are.” The other ladies nodded and agreed. The highly engineered walls of Silo 3 just needed a few more years to settle.

The tapping stopped.

“See?” she said and rearranged the contents of a tray. Aiden tugged again on her skirts.

“What is it?”

“It’s cold in my room.”

Charlotte rolled her eyes in performance. The other ladies looked on, how cute.

“Well we’ll just turn up the heat a little–”

Boom! The room was silent. The tapping started up again, louder, and more insistent. The ladies shifted uneasily in their places as the encroaching thunder echoed from the air vent.

“Dale!” Charlotte called, “Dale there’s something in the vent!”

Nerves twisted as the sound grew louder. Dale and several others arrived and a confusion set in. Aiden was ignored into a corner, standing on his toes to get a glimpse of what was going on. The grate was removed and handed away. Someone yelled for a flashlight. Another for gun. A lady screamed, a shot was fired. And the room, for a moment, was silent.

“Well,” Dale rubbed the back of his neck, “If any of you find you’re missing a black cat, I’m very sorry.”

Nervous laughter rippled around the room.

“I guess they really are bad luck,” another man’s voice sloshed about as the kitchen emptied. Aiden dodged the taller legs as he moved closer to his father.

“Hey there buddy,” Dale set the rifle on the counter in an embarrassed motion. Over his father’s shoulder, Aiden could see the open vent. At the very end of it, in dark, he thought he saw a wisp of long black hair.

“It was a cat?”

“Sure was.”

Aiden watched wide-eyed as the grate was replaced.

“We’re gonna get the maintenance crew to take care of the rest,” Dale assured him. Did all the commotion wake you?”

“My room is cold.”

“Well why don’t you grab the extra quilt, ok? The one in our closet – you know where it is?”

Aiden nodded. In the living room, the adults were coming down from their high of panicked excitement, congratulating and laughing at themselves in equal measure. Charlotte stood in the hall, speaking in low, harsh tones to someone on the other end of the phone line. Aiden drifted through their New Year’s Eve splendor, entirely unnoticed.

He opened the door to his parent’s room and flipped on the light. Time stopped. Breathing stopped. All thoughts stopped in an instant. On the far side of the room, there was a child. A filthy, malformed child with feral eyes. Its bony body was loosely draped with rags. The grate of the air vent lay at its feet.

It occurred to Aiden to scream, but nothing came. He was caught in its gaze, frozen by the sunken face beneath tangled strands of long black hair. It raised a twisted finger to its lips.

Shhh.

In the other room, the adults were counting down. For a moment, Aiden risked a look over his shoulder. His heart sank further – no one was coming. In a twitch, he snapped his gaze back to keep a steady eye on the other — but it was gone. The grate returned to the vent. Not a single trace of what had stood there.

And down the hall they were shouting, “…three, two, one… Happy New Year!”

—————————–

The image is from Wiki Commons, “800px-Steel_air_vent_for_cold_air”. Public domain image.

The road is calling
My unsung name
It’s whispers falling
‘Til my feet untame
And it grips me wholly
With it’s subtle beat
Drags me softly
Toward the path to meet
The call, the threshold
The challenge laid
The end untold
Until my feet have paid
The road is calling
My unsung name
It’s glories falling
Are but mine to claim

“And don’t you think that’s a bit of a… I don’t know… a hell of a left turn, kind of late in the game.”

“You think I’m too old?” Lori raised an eyebrow.

“I think you need to think about it,” his voice softened, “Carefully.”

“I have.”

“You have? Since when?”

“I’ve always loved flying, you know that. And I’ve been thinking about it lately, and I want to give it a shot. I’m not going to do anything rash, and I don’t expect to achieve everything overnight…” Lori took a long breath in, “But I want to try.”

Michael looked at her, looked into her, and smiled. Even after 20 years, her head was still as much in the clouds as it was the day he met her. And it was beautiful.

Again, they lay quiet atop the white noise of the water. Long moments passed.

And then Jacob started singing.

What started as a quiet hum-mumble grew bolder with each phrase. Slowly, Lewis joined in, and soon the two young men were singing – nearly shouting – ‘Dancing Queen’. All verses. All choruses. All the words that, in different circumstances, they would have denied even knowing. They belted out their defiant ABBA sing-along against the darkness.

And just as quickly it was over. And quiet again. They lay all the stiller, looking at the stars.

They had to be off course. The wind had blown too long, and the sea had pushed too hard to expect a correct location. There were no landmarks, save a bleak horizon, and the stars had been veiled for weeks. The maiden voyage of the Ursula had not been a kind one. Even Captain Wilkes was growing concerned. And the crew was getting restless.

As night crept up upon them, a terrible fog came in to rest, and the water settled down to glass. The crew whispered to each other, spreading rumor and fable charged with dread. Lamps were lit in the quiet and dark. The creeks of the ship were like skittered heartbeats.

Captain Wilkes kept his eyes on the water ahead. After so much time of salt slosh and emptiness, the change, it seemed, had to bring something. And then, there were ripples.

What started soft and serene soon erupted into a spray of chaos. The crew sprang into action, bracing against the blast of water. Captain Wilkes’ tremendous baritone came swift and clear through the tumult, issuing order and valor in equal measure. The eruptions continued with increasing severity until finally its source was revealed: a steaming pink mass of flesh launched itself out of the water towards the Ursula amidst the horrified screams of “squid!”

Pistols drawn and harpoons manned, the crew fought valiantly to untangle the Ursula from the grip of the squid’s mighty tentacles. Principle among them was Captain Wilkes, who upon seeing the monster, immediately drew his rapier and threw himself into the fray – successfully hacking off one of the appendages himself.

But this only angered the beast. It drew its grip tighter around the Ursula, squeezing and cracking its hull. The men redoubled their efforts as they fought for their very lives. Just when their frenzy seemed to take effect, the giant squid grabbed hold of Captain Wilkes, lifting him high into the air. Held aloft, the captain gained an exceptional view of their foe and with unprecedented luck, determined its point of weakness. Captain Wilkes looked the squid in its large, jellied eye, and – though doomed himself – gave it a victorious sneer. He wrenched his head back to crew and shouted —

“Sweetheart?” Mom popped her head in the door just as gush of water escaped the bath, “Hey, careful, alright?”

In my pocket there’s a letter I meant to send some years ago. The envelope has become quite wrinkled, but I can’t imagine the words have faded. I used my favorite pen, and paper from the stationary set I got for Christmas as a girl. Savored paper. Only used on important occasions.

Does anyone send letters anymore?

I am worried the address will be wrong. Not wrong, I can still recite it by heart. But obsolete. God knows I’ve moved quite a bit. Here and there. Cheaper, closer, cleaner, bigger. Then smaller. So I suppose, it could end up in someone else’s hands entirely.

A little embarrassing, someone else reading it. Well, it would be anyway.

I do feel bad about the coffee stain. Years spent safely in a box under the bed, but take it out this morning and I blot it all in a minute. Don’t know why it had to be today. There’s no particular significance. If I wanted to be poetic, I could wait another month. And a half. And three days. But I was always crap at poetics. Besides, if I wait, I might lose my nerve.

O! I’ve plonked one on the head. Point to me.

I really ought to move. It’s nearly noon and my supply of stale dinner rolls is nearly running out. And there’s the box. Just a little stroll. Seems odd to do in public, sending something so private. But nobody else knows that, do they? And they don’t know that the prospect of a reply – any reply – is terrifying. They only see the wrinkled paper and the box.